every girl—hell, every person—I’ve ever known. She has no game, no agenda. She made me feel like the best version of myself: brave and funny but not trying too hard; romantic but not cheesy. She made me feel like a good man, maybe even good enough to deserve someone as open and guileless and beautiful as her.
But I’ve got to stop thinking that. I don’t know where Devorah is, and I probably never will. Like the saying goes, lightning doesn’t tend to strike twice.
Chapter 9
D
evorah
S EPTEMBER 2, 12:30 PM
P eople like to say it’s a small world. And even if you’re talking big picture, that’s probably true. But my world sometimes redefines the word “small.” Like the fact that my school is four blocks from my house, and my family’s store is one block from my school. Which means that on the average day, I travel exclusively within the same quarter-mile radius.
It didn’t used to feel so small. I never wanted to venture outside. We’re taught early on that strangers can’t be trusted and that we are never to speak to anyone who isn’t Hasidic (well, except for the boys and men who get to ride around in the Mitzvah mobiles, trying to bring non-Orthodox Jews back into the fold; Chabad is the only Hasidic sect that embraces proselytizing, which in a way is the only reason I exist, since my grandma was allowed to convert). Anyway, I know it sounds closed-minded, but I never really even wondered about what life was like beyond the borders of my neighborhood. People outside the faith didn’t seem real, more like two-dimensional cutouts living in a far-off other world.
Before I met Jaxon, my only connection to life beyond Chabad, ironically, was through the subjects I studied in school. This might sound nerdy, but I really loved learning. I used to pore over my textbooks when I got home, following the words with my pointer finger and stopping whenever I struck something I wanted to commit to memory, like
octopuses have rectangular pupils
, or
every hour the universe expands by a billion miles in all directions
. When my finger hit a sentence that was blacked out by the school censors, it felt like an exciting mystery.
But something about this year feels very different. Suddenly nothing quite fits—and not just my billowy white school blouse, which is straining at the bust for the first time under my thick navy vest. I feel an unrest creeping in, that expanding, unknown universe straining against the confines of my consciousness. And it’s paralyzing. This morning I sat through my Hebrew class without raising my hand once, even though as usual I knew all the answers. I forgot to take notes during Halakha because Mrs. Piekarski started talking about the three levels of sin—
pesha
,
avon
, and
chet
—and I got distracted trying to figure out which sin I’m committing by not being able to stop thinking about Jaxon.
Pesha
is purposeful and wicked, deliberately defying G-d, like stealing or killing.
Avon
is uncontrollable lust or emotion against your will or better judgment. And
chet
is unintentional, obviously the best kind. I want it to be
chet
, but I’m pretty sure it’s
avon
. It can’t be a good sign that I keep thinking about the curve of his lips in profile, or the way his skin felt against my own, like electrified velvet. Incidentally, I don’t marvel over the censored pages in my schoolbooks anymore. I
know
what Romeo and Juliet are doing behind those marks. And more than that, I
want
to know.
“Are you okay?” Shoshana asks me when we break for lunch in the courtyard, sitting down at a wooden table and unwrapping our chicken sandwiches. “You seem weird.” The sun shines brightly in my eyes, lending Shosh’s light brown hair a halo of starbursts.
“What do you mean?” I take a bite of my sandwich but find it hard to chew. My mouth is dry, dehydrated. I probably sweated all my fluids out through stress over the weekend. Mom took us clothes shopping in the city, and every
But I’ve got to stop thinking that. I don’t know where Devorah is, and I probably never will. Like the saying goes, lightning doesn’t tend to strike twice.
Chapter 9
D
evorah
S EPTEMBER 2, 12:30 PM
P eople like to say it’s a small world. And even if you’re talking big picture, that’s probably true. But my world sometimes redefines the word “small.” Like the fact that my school is four blocks from my house, and my family’s store is one block from my school. Which means that on the average day, I travel exclusively within the same quarter-mile radius.
It didn’t used to feel so small. I never wanted to venture outside. We’re taught early on that strangers can’t be trusted and that we are never to speak to anyone who isn’t Hasidic (well, except for the boys and men who get to ride around in the Mitzvah mobiles, trying to bring non-Orthodox Jews back into the fold; Chabad is the only Hasidic sect that embraces proselytizing, which in a way is the only reason I exist, since my grandma was allowed to convert). Anyway, I know it sounds closed-minded, but I never really even wondered about what life was like beyond the borders of my neighborhood. People outside the faith didn’t seem real, more like two-dimensional cutouts living in a far-off other world.
Before I met Jaxon, my only connection to life beyond Chabad, ironically, was through the subjects I studied in school. This might sound nerdy, but I really loved learning. I used to pore over my textbooks when I got home, following the words with my pointer finger and stopping whenever I struck something I wanted to commit to memory, like
octopuses have rectangular pupils
, or
every hour the universe expands by a billion miles in all directions
. When my finger hit a sentence that was blacked out by the school censors, it felt like an exciting mystery.
But something about this year feels very different. Suddenly nothing quite fits—and not just my billowy white school blouse, which is straining at the bust for the first time under my thick navy vest. I feel an unrest creeping in, that expanding, unknown universe straining against the confines of my consciousness. And it’s paralyzing. This morning I sat through my Hebrew class without raising my hand once, even though as usual I knew all the answers. I forgot to take notes during Halakha because Mrs. Piekarski started talking about the three levels of sin—
pesha
,
avon
, and
chet
—and I got distracted trying to figure out which sin I’m committing by not being able to stop thinking about Jaxon.
Pesha
is purposeful and wicked, deliberately defying G-d, like stealing or killing.
Avon
is uncontrollable lust or emotion against your will or better judgment. And
chet
is unintentional, obviously the best kind. I want it to be
chet
, but I’m pretty sure it’s
avon
. It can’t be a good sign that I keep thinking about the curve of his lips in profile, or the way his skin felt against my own, like electrified velvet. Incidentally, I don’t marvel over the censored pages in my schoolbooks anymore. I
know
what Romeo and Juliet are doing behind those marks. And more than that, I
want
to know.
“Are you okay?” Shoshana asks me when we break for lunch in the courtyard, sitting down at a wooden table and unwrapping our chicken sandwiches. “You seem weird.” The sun shines brightly in my eyes, lending Shosh’s light brown hair a halo of starbursts.
“What do you mean?” I take a bite of my sandwich but find it hard to chew. My mouth is dry, dehydrated. I probably sweated all my fluids out through stress over the weekend. Mom took us clothes shopping in the city, and every
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